


Photep

by Immanuel



Series: Inferno [3]
Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Burning of Prospero, Gen, Knights Errant - Horus Heresy, Silent Sisterhood, Thousand Sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immanuel/pseuds/Immanuel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Prospero burning behind her, the Photep arrives at her destination and Magnus the Red's final message is revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photep

EVERY ONE OF them perceived the vision differently.  
  An unassuming scholar in a plain robe, set apart by the cyclopean eye in the centre of his forehead.  
  A sorcerer supreme draped in a cloak of feathers that bewildered the eye as they shifted through many colours, like light passing through a prism. His left eye had the same shimmering quality, while the crimson flesh opposite showed no trace of an eye ever having sat there. He was haloed by a writhing mass of scarlet locks, each moving according to their own will.  
  A lord of war clad in ivory-edged auric armour, hair bound in an officer’s plume by a purple-banded battle crown. His face was criss-crossed by ravines cobwebbing out from the epicentre of the hollow, scarred left eye-socket, the pattern continued in the bloodshot sclera around his remaining golden iris.  
  A rapturous angel borne aloft on four wings of light, possessing many faces of both man and beast. A single, burning eye sat at the heart of his being, staring outward in every direction simultaneously.  
  No matter how they saw him, though, the depthless sorrow and pain in the single eye of Magnus the Red was impossible to bear. Their primarch, a being that had once inspired them to undreamed heights of wisdom, humbled by his ultimate failure. He spoke to them across the gulf of time and space through the sealed psychic message he had sent with them when he ordered the Prosperine fleet to disperse.  
  +I am so sorry,+ the four words were barely a whisper forming in their minds. The weight of shame they carried broke the hearts of every one of the Thousand Sons. To feel the silent voice of the Crimson King, the voice of knowledge and the hope of a brighter future, broken by despair was unthinkable.  
  +My beloved sons, I did everything I could to save you. But I failed. Horus has lost his way, started a war that will engulf all mankind in fire. I tried to warn my father, and in my arrogance I destroyed what hope remained. The Wolves have been unleashed on Prospero. I have accepted my fate. Prospero burns. The Legion – my sons – are dead.+  
  The news struck with the force of an orbital bombardment. That such things were possible was beyond any of their darkest nightmares, yet here was their father telling them they had already come to pass. Dread settled in their hearts. They knew it was all true, and the galaxy was a darker place for it.  
  +I am so sorry,+ repeated Magnus.  
  It seemed, to some of them at least, that a single tear rolled down the primarch’s face as he closed his cyclopean eye.  
  +Go now and die in whatever way seems best to you.+

All was darkness. An empty void filled with nothing but the fading echoes of the primarch’s pronouncement of doom.  
  _Prospero burns_. When the primarch spoke those words, they had been a simple statement of fact, and of tragedy. Now, every repeating echo seemed to imbue them with a new hidden meaning. _I let Prospero burn_. _I wanted Prospero to burn_.  
  There was no escaping it. The words were like barbed hooks, every movement twisting them deeper into the mind. That was where they found a deeper purchase. _Terra will burn, as Prospero burned_.  
  +Brometheus,+ a voice called out silently, stronger and more resolute than the insidious shades hiding in his father’s words.  
  He opened his mind’s eye, and the darkness dissipated. Brometheus hung in the familiar golden sphere of psychic communion, joined by the subtle bodies of two of his brothers.  
  +We thought we had lost you,+ said the voice that had called him back from the edge.  
  +So did I, Aten,+ Brometheus replied.  
  +Spare us your existential crisis,+ snapped the last of them, his subtle body burning fierce with choler. +The Legion stands on the brink of extinction. There is no time to be lost wallowing in self-pity.+  
  +Maalik is too harsh, but his point stands,+ sent Aten Tutankh, causing Maalik to bristle visibly. +While we are unable to raise the fleets of the _Ankhtowe_ , the _Scion of Prospero_ or the _Kymmeru_ , we are forced to assume we are what is left of Legion command.+  
  +Two sergeants and a techmarine. The new Rehati,+ Maalik summarised the disheartening state of affairs.  
  +Rehati? Should we not then be meeting in the sanctum?+ asked Brometheus.  
  +We had to drag your floundering mind back together.+  
  +Do you not mourn our loss, brother? Does it affect you so little?+  
  +Of course it does!+ Maalik swelled with the sudden flare of his volatile temperament. +It was my world that burned, not yours.+  
  +Calm, brother,+ Tutankh sent, telepathically soothing his brother’s rage. +Without the primarch, where upon the spiral would we stand? We have lost direction and must find it anew.+  
  +Simple enough. Return to Prospero and hunt the Wolves down.+  
  +We cannot win that fight, Maalik,+ Brometheus countered. +We are in need of direction, on that I agree with Aten. Without the primarch, the logical source is the Emperor.+  
  +You would have us crawl back to Terra and the bastard that set the Wolves loose in the first place?+  
  +It is the reasonable thing to do.+  
  +Only if Magnus is dead,+ Tutankh sent.  
  The thought hung in the aether for a moment as the others considered the enormity of the suggestion. _Could Magnus have survived?_  
  +You are madder than the Terran,+ Maalik replied at last. +You think our father would sacrifice the Legion to escape with his own life?+  
  +I think even he is not sure he can die.+  
  +Have the two of you truly no desire for vengeance? Have you so little stomach for the fight that the Emperor started when he murdered our father and destroyed our home?+  
  +Did you not listen to what he said, brother? Our father was not murdered, he was judged for what he had done. He accepted that – you should too,+ sent Brometheus.  
  +He said to die however we saw fit. No way seems fit to me except drowning the stars in the blood of our father’s murderers.+  
  +He’s not dead, Maalik. Magnus lives. Do you not feel it?+ Tutankh urged.  
  +Denial is unworthy of you, Sergeant Tutankh. In any case I see my thoughts are wasted on you, both determined to embrace the Legion’s destruction. If I alone have the courage to fight against it, so be it.+

 _Kill him_.  
  The thought tore through Tutankh’s mind as he dropped out of the psychic communion, rolling to the side as a hail of bolt shells ripped out of an expanding ball of fire that suddenly materialised in front of him.  
  +To arms, brothers,+ he sent to his squad.  
  Maalik stepped out of the conflagration, bolt pistol raised and spitting shells into the space Tutankh had occupied moments before. He scanned the Pyrae’s surface thoughts, and those of the seven Astartes that followed him, avoiding the densest volume of fire. He trusted his mark III plate to weather the rest.  
  He slammed his hand against the control panel next to the door, throwing himself through the gap as soon as it was wide enough. Outside his chambers, his squad was waiting for him with bolters raised. Knowing he had lost the element of surprise, Maalik did not dare follow him out of the chamber – instead, he sent the incandescent form of his tutelary.  
  +What is the meaning of this, Adaran?+ Tutankh demanded, his own tutelary materialising as a golden mist around his shoulders.  
  +Maalik and I felt it would be best to remove you from office,+ the tutelary replied. +Your attitude is not compatible with the Legion’s new direction.+  
  +Perhaps you should reconsider your position,+ his tutelary whispered in his mind – for him alone to hear, not projected into Maalik’s mind as the thoughts he exchanged with Adaran were.  
  +Not the time, Senedjem,+ he replied, turning his thoughts back to Adaran. +I outnumber you. Where are the others? Gone to pay Brometheus a visit?+  
  +He will be dealt with in time,+ a sliver of thought slipped through Maalik’s mental defences, revealing that the remainder of his squad were on the bridge. +For now, you should surrender whilst we are willing to humour your numerical advantage. It will not save you if your force our hand.+  
  Tutankh shook his head, lingering traces of the abruptly interrupted psychic communion fogging his thoughts. His mind traced across the thoughts of his men, each of them ready to pull the trigger at a moment’s notice.  
  +We shall see.+  
  He lashed out with his mind, a bright dagger of pure thought punching though Adaran’s semi-corporeal body. The fire sprite dissipated with a screech of rage as it tumbled back into the Great Ocean. It had not been expecting the blow, but it would not stay down for long. He could sense Senedjem’s disapproval, but paid his tutelary no heed.  
  A thought pulse put his plan of action into the minds of his squad as Tutankh made for the door, unhooking his force axe. Psychic energy gleamed along the recurved edge as he readied his first blow.  
  Pain pierced his shoulder. A second later it blossomed into fire. The axe fell to the deck, along with the arm still gripping it tight.  
  Two more stabs of pain followed, in the chest and abdomen, stitching their way down his torso through the shattered hole left in the ceramite by the first shot through the joint under his arm. He felt internal organs rupture as the bolts exploded inside him.  
  Senedjem’s laughter filled his mind as a veil lifted from his thoughts, revealing thoughts of treachery behind him. He turned and saw Rameses holding a smoking boltgun. Falling to his knees, he closed his eyes.  
  Rameses put a bolt through his brain.

Brometheus opened his own eyes as the psychic tether that let him see through Tutankh’s snapped. Thanks to the Athanaean’s sacrifice, he knew what he was facing and had been able to prepare his countermeasures. He pulled a lever down with his servo arm, status indicators switching to green with a hum of power that made his teeth itch and sent static crackles through his spinal interface nodes.  
  He closed his eyes, rising through the enumerations, and slammed his hand down on the activation rune.

A flash of blinding light ripped into being on the bridge of the _Photep_. The two Legionaries left behind as guards opened fire as one. A handful of bolts punched into Brometheus’ chest as the teleport flare faded. He reached out his hands and gripped their nerves tight. Their fingers eased off their triggers and, in that moment, every muscle locked as if they were frozen in time. Their vision faded to black as he pushed his will deeper, making sure that no distress call, either vocal or psychic, would be issued.  
  The crew, having no idea what was transpiring, were sufficiently stilled by shock that he did not need to touch their minds.  
  The bridge’s guardians pushed back in their minds, but their power was no match for his. He glanced at their pauldrons, seeing a taloned claw and a raven’s head. _Raptora and Corvidae_. No match for Pavoni once he had their bodies on his strings. Although, perhaps the Corvid should have seen him coming.  
  He felt Nu feeding more power through him. Suddenly, the pressure released and the bodies he had been holding onto were gone, fading into echoes. Brometheus stepped forwards cautiously, approaching the two Astartes still locked in place on either side of the command throne. He brought up a bio-scanner, receiving a blurted error code. _No life signs_. Their bodies had been unable to function under his psychic assault and simply ceased to be.  
  He blinked in shock, coming to terms with the fact that he had just killed two of his brothers. Accident or not, it left a sour taste in his mouth.  
  +Nu, what have you done?+  
  +What you needed me to do,+ his tutelary replied, coalescing into the form of a blue-green serpent wrapped around the throne.  
  Steeling himself, Brometheus stepped up onto the command dais and sat on the throne. Mechadendrites slithered over the metal seat, plugging into a multitude of interface sockets to bring him into direct communion with the ship.  
  +No. You will not rule me.+  
Breathing deeply, he let his awareness splinter, dispersing it through the ship. He felt the _Photep_ ’s confusion at this intrusion.  
  +Stop!+ Nu cried out in his mind.  
  Brometheus felt unreal coils tighten about his chest, fighting to hold onto him. He pulled away from it, pushing himself deeper into the ship. _Be still. You will have purpose again_. The ship seemed to yield to his assurance. He felt layers of ablative armour as a second skin, his skeleton extended into miles of reinforced girders. He sighed with relief as he felt Nu dissipate.  
  A thousand thousand guns were in his hands, each as familiar as his own boltgun. This time, he would do the deed himself. With a thought, Tutankh's ship, the _Solaris_ , was wiped from the face of reality.  
  He opened the comm relays, his voice speaking out across the fleet. On the bridge of every ship, bewildered crew received their new orders.  
  “Sergeant Maalik has been removed from command. Any who wish to join him will share the reward for treachery. You have all heard the primarch’s words and have no reason to doubt them. For good or ill, there is only one way to find the answers we seek. We go to Terra, to whatever fate awaits us there.”  
  Stunned silence met his declaration. Then, slowly, affirmations began to come in. The fleet was with him – all except one.  
  +I didn’t think you had it in you, brother,+ the voice of a dead sorcerer spoke in his mind.  
  +I’m glad you survived, brother.+  
  +A strange thing to say after attempted fratricide,+ replied Maalik.  
  +Surprised, but glad. I have the fleet now,+ Brometheus saw the fleet move through the _Photep_ ’s augurs, training their gun batteries on the _Ferula_ , but his eyes – his real eyes – could not be torn from the statuesque figures of his murdered brothers, condemned to stand as eternal sentinels at his side.  
  The fleet opened fire, bursting the _Ferula_ ’s void shields and crippling her engines with a single, precise volley. Brometheus’ mind hovered over the trigger, weighing the possible courses of the future in his mind. His brothers were aboard that ship – no matter what they had done, that bond would endure. He wondered if they would show the same mercy to him, were their places reversed. Maybe Tutankh had wondered the same thing in the moments before he died with the shock of betrayal writ large across his face.  
  _No, they would not_.  
  He withdrew his mind from the weapons systems, instead willing the fleet to full burn. He was not like them, would not be like them. And so he let them live – against every impulse bred and trained into his transhuman brain, he showed them mercy.  
  +You have spared yourself my blood, but every drop I shed shall stain your hands as much as mine,+ the silent words chased him like a curse. +Oceans of blood shall run between your fingers. I will show you how much you must suffer for my life.+  
  The _Photep_ powered away from the ships’ graveyard, leaving the _Ferula_ hanging in the void.

The pain was excruciating. It was absolute in its purity, leaving no room for anything else. For two hours now he had endured the agonising pain inflicted directly into his nervous system through the electrofibre mesh.  
  The pain was everything. He might remain for two hours more. It would not be the longest he had spent in the pain glove.  
  The pain was gone. Eyelids snapped open to reveal silver eyes, filled with wrath at whosoever dared intrude on his meditations. The pain glove peeled back from tanned flesh as he was raised out of the shaft.  
  Two figures awaited him. Sigismund was the very incarnation of contrition, head bowed as he took an armoured knee to beg his father’s forgiveness for the disturbance. Nathaniel Garro had no such concerns, cutting in before Sigismund could utter a word.  
  “Lord Dorn, you will have need of your armour,” he said, adding “Apologies for the unfortunate timing,” as an afterthought.  
  “Malcador’s Chosen are rarely so keen for my involvement,” observed Rogal Dorn as he stepped out of the pain glove’s harness.  
  “It seems appropriate when there is another primarch to deal with,” replied Garro, an edge of agitation in his voice. “Magnus is here.”  
  “I fail to see the urgency, I’m sure Russ has the situation in hand.”  
  “Russ isn’t here, my lord,” explained Sigismund, rising with one hand on the pommel of the _Black Sword_. “A fleet of ships from the Fifteenth Legion translated in-system, led by the _Photep_.”  
  Dorn frowned, disconcerted by the unexpected turn of events. Of all the possible courses of events, the best was that Magnus had fled Prospero when Russ came – and even that had worrisome implications.  
  “Muster the Legion and have the _Phalanx_ move out to an intercept course,” Dorn ordered Sigismund, then turned to Garro. “If you have not already, send word to Sister-Commander Krole. If you wish to bring your Knights Errant, I will need you to operate under my command. That applies doubly to Rubio. If it is not already too late, we need to make sure my brother ends up on the right side of this war.”

Dorn stood on the bridge of _Phalanx_ , looking out at the crimson fleet of Prosperine ships crawling ever closer through the viewport. Sigismund, armoured in gold on his right, and Garro, cuirass adorned by twin eagles on his left, had the appearance of lesser aspects drawn from the towering form of the Lord of Stone. Displays showed the disposition of the Imperial Fists fleet, a wall of adamantium advancing across the void. A single gap in the otherwise perfect formation revealed the location of the blackship _Serenitatis_ , the flagship of the Silent Sisterhood invisible to all scanners.  
  The master of vox looked nervously up at Dorn, receiving an imperious nod. They had waited long enough without receiving a hail. He opened up a channel to the _Photep_ on Legion ciphers.  
  “Magnus, this is Rogal. Respond.”  
  No answer.  
  “ _Photep_ , respond.”  
  Silence.  
  Dorn turned on his heel to face Tylos Rubio, the psyker standing in the shadows at the rear of the bridge crowned in a corona of pale corposant from the psy-reactive crystals implanted in the hood rising from his unadorned grey armour. He opened his eyes as he felt Dorn’s gaze upon him.  
  “ _Diaboli_ ,” Rubio uttered the single word that made Dorn’s blood run cold.  
  “Survivors?”  
  “There are places on those ships the mind cannot penetrate,” said Rubio. “The Neverborn are clustered around them, clawing at them as they fade from the materium. There is something else, a psychic presence and void at the same time, on the bridge.”  
  Dorn’s jaw set in grim determination. “Prepare to board. Find any survivors in the blind spots and bring them in. Sigismund and Rubio, investigate the anomaly on the bridge of the _Photep_. I will head to Magnus’ sanctum with Sister-Commander Krole – if Magnus is here, that is where I will find him.”  
  “Where would you have me go, Lord Dorn?” asked Garro.  
  “Come with me, or choose another ship and accompany one of my captains. No secret missions – today, you’re just another sword.”

At first, they made swift progress through the ship. Dorn strode through the deserted corridors, noting scattered marks of conflict – a trace of old blood, a bullet hole or scratch in a wall – but nothing that spoke of a prolonged or even recent battle. When the Neverborn had come aboard the ship, the crew had been expecting them. Only the stragglers had been caught and butchered.  
  At least, that was the case on the upper decks. Below, Captain Rann was reporting that the lower places of the ship, home to tens of thousands of menial ratings, were a charnel house with heavy resistance. That would suit the Executioner. On a vessel so large, there was no sanctuary that could accommodate everyone.  
  Garro marched alongside Dorn ahead of a phalanx of praetorian terminators, their vigil-pattern storm shields locked into a solid wall advancing up the thoroughfare. Up ahead, Sister-Commander Krole gestured that all was clear before disappearing around the corner after her Raptor Guard. Even at this distance, the presence of a group of powerful pariahs was unsettling, but Dorn’s battleforce bore it in stoic silence.  
  It was not until they reached the final approach to Magnus’ sanctum that they encountered the Neverborn. The Raptor Guard were waiting for Dorn. Krole handed her sword, an enormous zweihänder, to one of her guard to enable her more easily to form the gestures of ThoughtMark.  
  < _Diaboli_ , controlling the approach to the sanctum,>  
  “Your recommended course of action, Sister-Commander?” asked Dorn.  
  <Shield wall of praetorians to cover us down the corridor. Once we get in close, wash with heavy flamers before breaking to allow the Raptor Guard to close to mêlée.>  
  Dorn nodded. “A sound strategy. Garro and I will accompany you on the charge.”  
  The shield wall advanced down the corridor, bolterfire spitting largely ineffectually around their shields. Only the _Voice of Terra_ , Dorn’s own pistol, seemed capable of dealing the bestial, winged beasts surging towards them any real damage. As the Neverborn drew close, fanged jaws opening wide and clawed hands splayed, small gaps opened in the shield wall. The cowled nozzles of heavy flamers emerged, bathing the enemy in purifying flame.  
  A split second later, the Raptor Guard charged out to meet them toe-to-toe. They never had the chance to strike a blow. For all their fury, they were weakened by the fire and their mere presence in realspace, dissipating at the mere proximity of the silent sisters.  
  Ahead, Dorn could see the sanctum. It was surrounded by red-skinned warriors, crested with horns and wielding blades glowing with hellish light that matched Krole’s in size. The creatures turned from their attempts to breach the sanctum, drawn by the promise of a more immediate prize.  
 These Neverborn had a stronger grip on reality, surviving the pariah effect long enough to be cleaved from crown to crotch by the blades of the Raptor Guard. Dorn reaped his own fearsome toll with _Storm’s Teeth_ , as did Garro with _Libertas_ , the praetorians crushing those who slipped through the gauntlet with mighty blows of their thunder hammers.  
  For all their fearsome blade mastery, the Neverborn stood no chance against the primarch of the Imperial Fists and the elite of the Silent Sisterhood. After a few minutes, more an extermination than a battle, the approach to the sanctum was cleared.

The bridge was a den of horrors. Coruscating flames licked up the walls and crawled over the remains of the crew, continuously mutating at the touch of the polychromatic warpflame even in death. At the heart of the madness, a host of Nerverborn clustered around the dais of the command throne. Seated on it was a legionary of the Thousand Sons, marked out as a techmarine by the servo-arm arm folded over his shoulder and the mechadendrites linking him to the throne. He was flanked by two more legionaries, and these were the focus of the attack.  
  Pink-skinned daemons with asymmetric limbs clawed at armour plates through the haze of fire spat forth from the many mouths of amorphous beasts, a blue-green serpent coiled around the circumference of some invisible barrier sustained by the legionaries. They themselves never moved, statues with bolters raised though they never fired a shot. A mechadendrite trailed from each back to the techmarine, incessantly moving over their armour to no purpose that Sigismund could divine.  
  It mattered little, in the end. Sigismund charged into the throng with sword held high and battlecry on his lips, followed closely by his Templar brethren.  
  They met the host of fire accompanied by a blistering shock of lightning thrown from Rubio’s hands. Blessed, or cursed, with the gift of the psyker, he alone saw the golden warding runes being traced onto the armoured suits, only to be consumed by the fire of the Neverborn in an endless cycle of creation and destruction.  
  Lightning and sword cut through the Neverborn, accelerating the entropy cause by their very existence in realspace. Sigismund impaled one of the pink gangrels through the gaping maw that formed most of its body, ripping his blade free in a spray of blue as he turned to strike a blow against one of the fire-breathers. He stumbled under two impacts to the back.  
  Behind him, two smaller horrors were emerging from the ectoplasmic ruin. The _Black Sword_ swung back to scythe them both down in a single stroke. Switching to a one-handed grip, Sigismund drew his bolt pistol and emptied a clip into their remains just to be sure. A quick scan of the surrounding battle revealed many of his brethren had also encountered their enemies’ meiosis.  
  “They won’t die captain!” a Templar cried out as he was dragged down by the haploids of foes he had thought defeated.  
A blast of lightning cut a swathe through them, but the Templars that rushed in afterwards were too late to save their brother. Rubio plunged his force sword downwards into a pink horror, pinning it to the deck. A moment later, a pulse of psychic energy along the blade vaporised the screaming abomination.  
  “Cut them down small!” shouted Sigismund. “Otherwise we’ll need to kill them all thrice!”  
  Proving his point, he hacked one to pieces with a lightning fast figure of eight flowing into a cross-cut. Nothing rose back up, the essence simply seeming to melt away into the deck.  
  A tidal wave of flame washed over him, pouring out of one of the many-mouthed fire-breathers. Dropping his empty bolt pistol, he resumed a two-handed grip as he swung blindly at the origin of the flames. The flow lessened, but did not halt as he took off what might be called the creatures head and a hand, though both neck and arm ended instead in a flame-spewing orifice.  
  Temperature warnings flashed insistently against his retinae, redundant in the face of the searing pain of armour threatening to melt into his flesh. Like being in the pain glove, it gave him the focus he needed.  
  He dropped and rolled to the side, emerging clear of the flames at the fire-breather’s flank. Stabbing low, Sigismund punctured the Neverborn’s largest and lowermost mouth, on which it hopped to move, dragging the sword up along its narrow body of twisted sinew. Whatever reservoir of malignant flame sat at its heart exploded in light of every colour he could imagine, and some he could not.

Dorn stood before the sloped wall of opaque crystal, rising from floor to ceiling before continuing out beyond the hull to a peak projected out into the void. Holstering his pistol and quieting the roaring teeth of his chainsword, Dorn raised his fist and brought it down against the wall.  
  Once. Twice. Thrice.  
  The booming echo of the impact gradually faded back into silence. Garro shot Dorn a questioning look, opening his mouth to say something. Dorn raised a hand to cut him off. The wall parted, revealing survivors of the crew huddled in the sanctum.  
  They were crowded into the pyramidal space, transparent from within to reveal Neverborn scratching at the crystal walls from the void outside.  
  <Witches,> marked Krole, adding <Not just the Astropaths,> in answer to Dorn’s unasked question.  
  “In the name of the Emperor of Mankind, welcome to the Sol System,” boomed Dorn, cutting through the mixed noises of relief and fear coming from the survivors at the sight of their liberators. “You will be removed from this vessel for documentation.” Switching off external address, Dorn opened a private link to Garro. “I trust the Sigillite has sufficient capacity on Titan?”

Rubio had reached the nearest of the unmoving Thousand Sons, striking at the coils of the serpentine entity encircling the psychic barrier. The first blow struck deep, drawing a hiss – and attention. The second blow phased through a blue-green mist as the Neverborn dissipated, reforming with its coils wrapped tightly around Rubio.  
  +His soul is mine,+ it spoke without speaking, not just in his mind but the minds of all present. +You cannot fight fate.+  
  It squeezed, crushing the life out of Rubio. He dropped his sword, the blade clattering lifeless the deck.  
  Out of the photonic deathscream of the firebreather, Sigismund leapt with the _Black Sword_ held high.  
  “In the Emperor’s name, you shall not claim him!” he roared, bringing the blade down.  
  Shattered scales turned to dust as they fell from the serpent. Both head and constricting coils were severed in a blow that left Rubio with a two-inch groove down his fresh-forged Mark VI breastplate.  
  Rubio fell to his knees, sucking air greedily into his near-collapsed lungs. Reclaiming his fallen blade to return it to its sheath, he nodded his thanks.  
  The Templars had despatched the last of the Neverborn, the warpflame fading out of reality along with its creators. The desecrated bodies of the crew were finally still, ready to be laid to rest by a final encounter with a purer fire. All became still on the bridge, except that the mechadendrites continued their dance over the unmoving sentinels of the throne unabated.  
  Sigismund looked to Rubio, receiving a non-committal shrug. He hefted the _Black Sword_ and, with a single swing, cleft the armour in twain. The mechadendrites dropped limply to the floor as the techmarine slumped forward, a puppet with cut strings.  
  No blood, just a trickle of bonedust from the hollow suit. Sigismund frowned, tracing the tip of his blade through the particulate as if expecting to be able to sift some answer from it.  
  Rubio’s attention was fixed firmly on the Thousand Son wired into the command throne. Though his head sagged forward under the weight of the Kheltaran crest on his helm, the spark of life was in him yet. Rubio disengaged the seals of the helm. Beneath was a sweat-soaked face too pale to be Prosperine, eyes rolled back in his skull and lips moving wordlessly.  
  Rubio laid his hand on the comatose figure’s brow.

 _I stand on scorched earth amidst a boneyard of twisted stanchions. The sky is dark with clouds of ash and dust, the air a miasma of cindered flesh. Wolves of fire stalk the ruins, scratching in the dust for scraps that escaped the ruination. They will find nothing._  
_I neither see nor feel any trace of the owner of this mental hellscape._  
_The wolves howl, the sound corrupted by the crackle of flames. They have caught my scent. I run through the ruins – they are not real, but that does not mean they are not dangerous. I pass craters as I near the heart of this burnt effigy of Tizca, gaping voids where silver towers once stood. They are too neat to have been made by weapons of war. I feel heat at my back, hear a wet leopard growl too close for comfort. I look back over my shoulder into the face of the wolf, and I fall._  
_The wolf does not strike. I rise to find myself next to a ruined shell of armour. The wolves do not approach the carcass, but an unkindness of ravens shows no such hesitation. Genhanced flesh hangs in strips from bloodied beaks as they feast on a dead god of war. Pared to the bone, I am surprised to see the Crimson King’s skull has two eye sockets._  
_This is not what happened on Prospero. It is what the owner of the mind I walk in fears happened. There is yet no sign of him, and so I must follow his fears._  
_I lay my hand on the jade scarab set between the curling ebon horns of Magnus’ breastplate, and find myself standing atop an obsidian tower. From a volcanic plain divided by glowing lava flows, other spires rise, the towers missing from Tizca. I have slipped through a crack in space onto another world that that occupies the same space._  
_I am not alone._  
_His revenant form re-fleshed, Magnus the Red stands at my shoulder surveying the newborn mockery of Tizca. This is no longer the mind I stepped into. This dream within a dream is an annex, a lingering echo caused by the psychic bond of a father with his son._  
_+You do not belong here, Tylos Rubio,+ says Magnus._  
_+Where is 'here'?+ I reply._  
_+Nowhere. A vision of an unborn world where the fate of the Thousand Sons is to be decided,+ Magnus sighs. +At least it was. I cannot be sure, but I believe it has become altogether too real.+_  
_+What happened on Prospero?+_  
_+My sons died in their thousands, cut down by the Wolves of Fenris. I do not blame Russ, nor the Emperor, but they have been made pawns of the powers in the warp as much as I have. I was loyal – my sons were loyal,+ Magnus smiles sadly. +Whether we still are, I cannot say.+_  
_There is little he can tell me, less with any degree of certainty. This fragment of Magnus is incomplete, an apparition conjured in the same manner as the vision of the unnamed world which we survey._  
_+I cannot find the legionary whose mind I entered.+_  
_+He is not here. His soul has been cast adrift, unable to return to his body because of the damage done to his mind. The body must be healed before the soul is able to return. Then, and only then, will you have a chance to awaken him.+_  
_I nod my head, and begin to pull my mind back into my own body._  
_+Save him, Tylos,+ Magnus pleads with me as I fade._  
_I will find him, and I will bring him back._

**Author's Note:**

> This is a narrative rendition of a player's character bio from a Horus Heresy RPG I GMed. Brometheus is Magpie's brain-child. Maalik and Rameses are Fresher's brain-children from a 10,000 years later in Dark Heresy.
> 
> Timeline:  
> 004.M31: Thousand Sons fleet dispersed  
> 004.M31: Burning of Prospero  
> c.007.M31: Return of the Photep


End file.
